The Man Between
by
Amelia E. Barr
Part 4 out of 5
other fragrant plants were around, and close
at hand a little city of straw skeps peopled
by golden brown bees; From these skeps
came a delicious aroma of riced flowers and
virgin wax. It was a new Garden of Eden,
in which life was sweet as perfume and pure
as prayer. Nothing stirred the green, sunny
afternoon but the murmur of the bees, and
the sleepy twittering of the birds in the plane
branches. An inexpressible peace swept like
the breath of heaven through the odorous
places. They sat down sighing for very happiness.
The silence became too eloquent. At
length it was almost unendurable, and Ethel
said softly:
"How still it is!"
Tyrrel looked at her steadily with beaming
eyes. Then he took from his pocket a little
purse of woven gold and opal-tinted beads,
and held it in his open hand for her to see,
watching the bright blush that spread over
her face, and the faint, glad smile that parted
her lips.
"You understand?"
"Yes. It is mine."
"It was yours. It is now mine."
"How did you get it?"
"I bought it from the old man you gave
it to."
"Oh! Then you know him? How is
that?"
"The hotel people sent a porter home with
him lest he should be robbed. Next day I made
inquiries, and this porter told me where he
lived. I went there and bought this purse
from him. I knew some day it would bring
me to you. I have carried it over my heart
ever since."
"So you noticed me?"
"I saw you all the time I was singing. I
have never forgotten you since that hour."
"What made you sing?"
"Compassion, fate, an urgent impulse;
perhaps, indeed, your piteous face--I saw it
first."
"Really?"
"I saw it first. I saw it all the time I was
singing. When you dropped this purse my
soul met yours in a moment's greeting. It was
a promise. I knew I should meet you again.
I have loved you ever since. I wanted to tell
you so the hour we met. It has been hard to
keep my secret so long."
"It was my secret also."
"I love you beyond all words. My life is
in your hands. You can make me the gladdest
of mortals. You can send me away forever."
"Oh, no, I could not! I could not do
that!" The rest escapes words; but thus it
was that on this day of days these two came
by God's grace to each other.
For all things come by fate to flower,
At their unconquerable hour.
And the very atmosphere of such bliss is
diffusive; it seemed as if all the living creatures
around understood. In the thick, green
branches the birds began to twitter the secret,
and certainly the wise, wise bees knew also,
in some occult way, of the love and joy that
had just been revealed. A wonderful humming
and buzzing filled the hives, and the air
vibrated with the movement of wings. Some
influence more swift and secret than the birds
of the air carried the matter further, for it
finally reached Royal, the Squire's favorite
collie, who came sauntering down the alley,
pushed his nose twice under Ethel's elbow,
and then with a significant look backward,
advised the lovers to follow him to the house.
When they finally accepted his invitation,
they found Mrs. Rawdon drinking a cup of
tea with Ruth in the hall. Ethel joined them
with affected high spirits and random
explanations and excuses, but both women no-
ticed her radiant face and exulting air.
"The garden is such a heavenly place," she
said ecstatically, and Mrs Rawdon remarked,
as she rose and put her cup on the table,
"Girls need chaperons in gardens if they
need them anywhere. I made Nicholas Rawdon
a promise in Mossgill Garden I've had to
spend all my life since trying to keep."
"Tyrrel and I have been sitting under the
plane tree watching the bees. They are such
busy, sensible creatures."
"They are that," answered Mrs. Rawdon.
"If you knew all about them you would
wonder a bit. My father had a great many;
he studied their ways and used to laugh at
the ladies of the hive being so like the ladies
of the world. You see the young lady bees
are just as inexperienced as a schoolgirl.
They get lost in the flowers, and are often so
overtaken and reckless, that the night finds
them far from the hive, heavy with pollen
and chilled with cold. Sometimes father
would lift one of these imprudent young
things, carry it home, and try to get it admitted.
He never could manage it. The lady
bees acted just as women are apt to do when
other women GO where they don't go, or DO
as they don't do."
"But this is interesting," said Ruth.
"Pray, how did the ladies of the hive behave
to the culprit?"
"They came out and felt her all over,
turned her round and round, and then pushed
her out of their community. There was always
a deal of buzzing about the poor, silly
thing, and I shouldn't wonder if their stings
were busy too. Bees are ill-natured as they
can be. Well, well, I don't blame anyone for
sitting in the garden such a day as this; only,
as I was saying, gardens have been very dangerous
places for women as far as I know."
Ruth laughed softly. "I shall take a
chaperon with me, then, when I go into the
garden."
"I would, dearie. There's the Judge; he's
a very suitable, sedate-looking one but you
never can tell. The first woman found in a
garden and a tree had plenty of sorrow for
herself and every woman that has lived after
her. I wish Nicholas and John Thomas
would come. I'll warrant they're talking
what they call politics."
Politics was precisely the subject which
had been occupying them, for when Tyrrel
entered the dining-room, the Squire, Judge
Rawdon, and Mr. Nicholas Rawdon were all
standing, evidently just finishing a Conservative
argument against the Radical opinions
of John Thomas. The young man was still
sitting, but he rose with smiling good-humor
as Tyrrel entered.
"Here is Cousin Tyrrel," he cried; "he
will tell you that you may call a government
anything you like radical, conservative, republican,
democratic, socialistic, but if it
isn't a CHEAP government, it isn't a good government;
and there won't be a cheap government
in England till poor men have a deal to
say about making laws and voting taxes."
"Is that the kind of stuff you talk to our
hands, John Thomas? No wonder they are
neither to hold nor to bind."
They were in the hall as John Thomas finished
his political creed, and in a few minutes
the adieux were said, and the wonderful
day was over. It had been a wonderful day
for all, but perhaps no one was sorry for a
pause in life--a pause in which they might
rest and try to realize what it had brought
and what it had taken away. The Squire went
at once to his room, and Ethel looked at Ruth
inquiringly. She seemed exhausted, and was
out of sympathy with all her surroundings.
"What enormous vitality these Yorkshire
women must have!" she said almost crossly.
"Mrs. Rawdon has been talking incessantly
for six hours. She has felt all she said. She
has frequently risen and walked about. She
has used all sorts of actions to emphasize her
words, and she is as fresh as if she had just
taken her morning bath. How do the men
stand them?"
"Because they are just as vital. John
Thomas will overlook and scold and order
his thousand hands all day, talk even his
mother down while he eats his dinner, and
then lecture or lead his Musical Union, or
conduct a poor man's concert, or go to `the
Weaver's Union,' and what he calls `threep
them' for two or three hours that labor is
ruining capital, and killing the goose that
lays golden eggs for them. Oh, they are a
wonderful race, Ruth!"
"I really can't discuss them now, Ethel."
"Don't you want to know what Tyrrel said
to me this afternoon?"
"My dear, I know. Lovers have said such
things before, and lovers will say them evermore.
You shall tell me in the morning. I
thought he looked distrait and bored with our
company."
Indeed, Tyrrel was so remarkably quiet
that John Thomas also noticed his mood, and
as they sat smoking in Tyrrel's room, he resolved
to find out the reason, and with his
usual directness asked:
"What do you think of Ethel Rawdon,
Tyrrel,"
"I think she is the most beautiful woman
I ever saw. She has also the most sincere
nature, and her high spirit is sweetly tempered
by her affectionate heart."
"I am glad you know so much about her.
Look here, Cousin Tyrrel, I fancied to-night
you were a bit jealous of me. It is easy to
see you are in love, and I've no doubt you
were thinking of the days when you would be
thousands of miles away, and I should have
the ground clear and so on, eh?"
"Suppose I was, cousin, what then?"
"You would be worrying for nothing. I
don't want to marry Ethel Rawdon. If I
did, you would have to be on the ground all
the time, and then I should best you; but I
picked out my wife two years ago, and if we
are both alive and well, we are going to be
married next Christmas."
"I am delighted. I----"
"I thought you would be."
"Who is the young lady?"
"Miss Lucy Watson. Her father is the
Independent minister. He is a gentleman,
though his salary is less than we give our
overseer. And he is a great scholar. So is
Lucy. She finished her course at college this
summer, and with high honors. Bless you,
Tyrrel, she knows far more than I do about
everything but warps and looms and such
like. I admire a clever woman, and I'm
proud of Lucy."
"Where is she now?"
"Well, she was a bit done up with so much
study, and so she went to Scarborough for a
few weeks. She has an aunt there. The sea
breezes and salt water soon made her fit for
anything. She may be home very soon now.
Then, Tyrrel, you'll see a beauty--face like
a rose, hair brown as a nut, eyes that make
your heart go galloping, the most enticing
mouth, the prettiest figure, and she loves me
with all her heart. When she says `John
Thomas, dear one,' I tremble with pleasure,
and when she lets me kiss her sweet mouth,
I really don't know where I am. What would
you say if a girl whispered, `I love you, and
nobody but you,' and gave you a kiss that was
like--like wine and roses? Now what would
you say?"
"I know as little as you do what I would
say. It's a situation to make a man coin new
words. I suppose your family are pleased."
"Well, I never thought about my family
till I had Lucy's word. Then I told mother.
She knew Lucy all through. Mother has a
great respect for Independents, and though
father sulked a bit at first, mother had it out
with him one night, and when mother has father
quiet in their room father comes to see
things just as she wants him. I suppose
that's the way with wives. Lucy will be just
like that. She's got a sharp little temper, too.
She'll let me have a bit of it, no doubt, now
and then."
"Will you like that?"
"I wouldn't care a farthing for a wife without
a bit of temper. There would be no fun
in living with a woman of that kind. My father
would droop and pine if mother didn't
spur him on now and then. And he likes it.
Don't I know? I've seen mother snappy and
awkward with him all breakfast time, tossing
her head, and rattling the china, and declaring
she was worn out with men that let all the
good bargains pass them; perhaps making fun
of us because we couldn't manage to get along
without strikes. She had no strikes with her
hands, she'd like to see her women stand up
and talk to her about shorter hours, and so on;
and father would look at me sly-like, and as
we walked to the mill together he'd laugh contentedly
and say, `Your mother was quite refreshing
this morning, John Thomas. She has
keyed me up to a right pitch. When Jonathan
Arkroyd comes about that wool he sold us I'll
be all ready for him.' So you see I'm not
against a sharp temper. I like women as Tennyson
says English girls are, `roses set round
with little wilful thorns,' eh?"
Unusual as this conversation was, its general
tone was assumed by Ethel in her confidential
talk with Ruth the following day. Of
course, Ruth was not at all surprised at the
news Ethel brought her, for though the lovers
had been individually sure they had betrayed
their secret to no one, it had really been an
open one to Ruth since the hour of their meeting.
She was sincerely ardent in her praises
of Tyrrel Rawdon, but--and there is always a
but--she wondered if Ethel had "noticed what
a quick temper he had."
"Oh, yes," answered Ethel, "I should not
like him not to have a quick temper. I expect
my husband to stand up at a moment's notice
for either mine or his own rights or opinions."
And in the afternoon when all preliminaries
had been settled and approved, Judge Rawdon
expressed himself in the same manner to
Ruth. "Yes," he said, in reply to her timid
suggestion of temper, "you can strike fire
anywhere with him if you try it, but he has
it under control. Besides, Ethel is just as
quick to flame up. It will be Rawdon against
Rawdon, and Ethel's weapons are of finer,
keener steel than Tyrrel's. Ethel will hold
her own. It is best so."
"How did the Squire feel about such a
marriage?"
"He was quite overcome with delight.
Nothing was said to Tyrrel about Ethel having
bought the reversion of Rawdon Manor,
for things have been harder to get into proper
shape than I thought they would be, and it
may be another month before all is finally
settled; but the Squire has the secret satisfaction,
and he was much affected by the certainty
of a Rawdon at Rawdon Court after
him. He declined to think of it in any other
way but `providential,' and of course I let
him take all the satisfaction he could out of
the idea. Ever since he heard of the engagement
he has been at the organ singing the
One Hundred and Third Psalm."
"He is the dearest and noblest of men.
How soon shall we go home now?"
"In about a month. Are you tired of England?"
"I shall be glad to see America again.
There was a letter from Dora this morning.
They sail on the twenty-third."
"Do you know anything of Mostyn?"
"Since he wrote us a polite farewell we
have heard nothing."
"Do you think he went to America?"
"I cannot tell. When he bid us good-by
he made no statement as to his destination;
he merely said `he was leaving England on
business.'"
"Well, Ruth, we shall sail as soon as I am
satisfied all is right. There is a little delay
about some leases and other matters. In the
meantime the lovers are in Paradise wherever
we locate them."
And in Paradise they dwelt for another
four weeks. The ancient garden had doubtless
many a dream of love to keep, but none
sweeter or truer than the idyl of Tyrrel and
Ethel Rawdon. They were never weary of
rehearsing it; every incident of its growth
had been charming and romantic, and, as they
believed, appointed from afar. As the sum-
mer waxed hotter the beautiful place took on
an appearance of royal color and splendor,
and the air was languid with the perfume of
the clove carnations and tall white August
lilies. Fluted dahlias, scarlet poppies, and all
the flowers that exhale their spice in the last
hot days of August burned incense for them.
Their very hair was laden with odor, their
fingers flower-sweet, their minds took on the
many colors of their exquisite surroundings.
And it was part of this drama of love and
scent and color that they should see it slowly
assume the more ethereal loveliness of
September, and watch the subtle amber rays
shine through the thinning boughs, and feel
that all nature was becoming idealized. The
birds were then mostly silent. They had left
their best notes on the hawthorns and among
the roses; but the crickets made a cheerful
chirrup, and the great brown butterflies displayed
their richest velvets, and the gossamer-like
insects in the dreamy atmosphere
performed dances and undulations full of
grace and mystery. And all these marvelous
changes imparted to love that sweet sadness
which is beyond all words poetic and enchaining.
Yet however sweet the hours, they pass
away, and it is not much memory can save
from the mutable, happy days of love. Still,
when the hour of departure came they had
garnered enough to sweeten all the after-
straits and stress of time. September had
then perceptibly begun to add to the nights
and shorten the days, and her tender touch
had been laid on everything. With a smile
and a sigh the Rawdons turned their faces to
their pleasant home in the Land of the West.
It was to be but a short farewell. They had
promised the Squire to return the following
summer, but he felt the desolation of the
parting very keenly. With his hat slightly
lifted above his white head, he stood watching
them out of sight. Then he went to his
organ, and very soon grand waves of melody
rolled outward and upward, and blended
themselves with the clear, soaring voice of
Joel, the lad who blew the bellows of the
instrument, and shared all his master's joy in
it. They played and sang until the Squire
rose weary, but full of gladness. The look of
immortality was in his eyes, its sure and certain
hope in his heart. He let Joel lead him
to his chair by the window, and then he said
to himself with visible triumph:
"What Mr. Spencer or anyone else writes
about `the Unknowable' I care not. I KNOW
IN WHOM I have believed. Joel, sing that last
sequence again. Stand where I can see thee."
And the lad's joyful voice rang exulting out:
"Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place
in all generations. Before the mountains
were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed
the world, from everlasting to everlasting
Thou art God! Thou art God! Thou art
God!"
"That will do, Joel. Go thy ways now.
Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in
all generations. `Unknowable,' Thou hast
been our dwelling-place in all generations.
No, no, no, what an ungrateful sinner I
would be to change the Lord everlasting for
the Unknowable.'"
CHAPTER IX
NEW YORK is at its very brightest and best
in October. This month of the year may be
safely trusted not to disappoint. The skies
are blue, the air balmy, and there is generally
a delightful absence of wind. The summer
exiles are home again from Jersey boarding
houses, and mountain camps, and seaside
hotels, and thankful to the point of hilarity
that this episode of the year is over, that they
can once more dwell under their own roofs
without breaking any of the manifest laws
of the great goddess Custom or Fashion.
Judge Rawdon's house had an especially
charming "at home" appearance. During
the absence of the family it had been made
beautiful inside and outside, and the white
stone, the plate glass, and falling lace evident
to the street, had an almost conscious
look of luxurious propriety.
The Judge frankly admitted his pleasure
in his home surroundings. He said, as they
ate their first meal in the familiar room, that
"a visit to foreign countries was a grand,
patriotic tonic." He vowed that the "first
sight of the Stars and Stripes at Sandy Hook
had given him the finest emotion he had ever
felt in his life," and was altogether in his
proudest American mood. Ruth sympathized
with him. Ethel listened smiling. She knew
well that the English strain had only temporarily
exhausted itself; it would have its
period of revival at the proper time.
"I am going to see grandmother," she
said gayly. "I shall stay with her all day."
"But I have a letter from her," interrupted
the Judge, "and she will not return
home until next week."
"I am sorry. I was anticipating so eagerly
the joy of seeing her. Well, as I cannot do
so, I will go and call on Dora Stanhope."
"I would not if I were you, Ethel," said
Ruth. "Let her come and call on you."
"I had a little note from her this morning,
welcoming me home, and entreating me
to call."
The Judge rose as Ethel was speaking, and
no more was said about the visit at that time
but a few hours later Ethel came down from
her room ready for the street and frankly
told Ruth she had made up her mind to call
on Dora.
"Then I will only remind you, Ethel, that
Dora is not a fortunate woman to know. As
far as I can see, she is one of those who sow
pain of heart and vexation of spirit about
every house they enter, even their own. But I
cannot gather experience for you, it will have
to grow in your own garden."
"All right, dear Ruth, and if I do not like
its growth, I will pull it up by the roots, I
assure you."
Ruth went with her to the door and watched
her walk leisurely down the broad steps to
the street. The light kindled in her eyes and
on her face as she did so. She already felt
the magnetism of the great city, and with a
laughing farewell walked rapidly toward
Dora's house.
Her card brought an instant response, and
she heard Dora's welcome before the door
was opened. And her first greeting was an
enthusiastic compliment, "How beautiful
you have grown, Ethel!" she cried. "Ah,
that is the European finish. You have gained
it, my dear; you really are very much improved."
"And you also, Dora?"
The words were really a question, but Dora
accepted them as an assertion, and was satisfied.
"I suppose I am," she answered, "though
I'm sure I can't tell how it should be so, unless
worry of all kinds is good for good looks.
I've had enough of that for a lifetime."
"Now, Dora."
"Oh, it's the solid truth--partly your
fault too."
"I never interfered----"
"Of course you didn't, but you ought to
have interfered. When you called on me in
London you might have seen that I was not
happy; and I wanted to come to Rawdon
Court, and you would not invite me. I called
your behavior then `very mean,' and I have
not altered my opinion of it."
"There were good reasons, Dora, why I
could not ask you."
"Good reasons are usually selfish ones,
Ethel, and Fred Mostyn told me what they
were.
"He likely told you untruths, Dora, for
he knew nothing about my reasons. I saw
very little of him."
"I know. You treated him as badly as
you treated me, and all for some wild West
creature--a regular cowboy, Fred said, but
then a Rawdon!"
"Mr. Mostyn has misrepresented Mr. Tyrrel
Rawdon--that is all about it. I shall not
explain `how' or `why.' Did you enjoy
yourself at Stanhope Castle?"
"Enjoy myself! Are you making fun of
me? Ethel, dear, it was the most awful experience.
You never can imagine such a life,
and such women. They were dressed for a
walk at six o'clock; they had breakfast at half-
past seven. They went to the village and inspected
cottages, and gave lessons in housekeeping
or dressmaking or some other
drudgery till noon. They walked back to the
Castle for lunch. They attended to their
own improvement from half-past one until
four, had lessons in drawing and chemistry,
and, I believe, electricity. They had another
walk, and then indulged themselves with a
cup of tea. They dressed and received visitors,
and read science or theology between
whiles. There was always some noted
preacher or scholar at the dinner table. The
conversation was about acids and explosives,
or the planets or bishops, or else on the
never, never-ending subject of elevating the
workingman and building schools for his children.
Basil, of course, enjoyed it. He
thought he was giving me a magnificent object
lesson. He was never done praising the
ladies Mary Elinor and Adelaide Stanhope.
I'm sure I wish he had married one or all of
them--and I told him so."
"You could not be so cruel, Dora."
"I managed it with the greatest ease
imaginable. He was always trotting at their
side. They spoke of him as `the most pious
young man.' I have no doubt they were all
in love with him. I hope they were. I used
to pretend to be very much in love when they
were present. I dare say it made them
wretched. Besides, they blushed and thought
me improper. Basil didn't approve, either,
so I hit all round."
She rose at this memory and shook out her
silk skirts, and walked up and down the room
with an air that was the visible expression of
the mockery and jealousy in her heart. This
was an entirely different Dora to the lachrymose,
untidy wife at the Savoy Hotel in London,
and Ethel had a momentary pang at the
thought of the suffering which was responsible
for the change.
"If I had thought, Dora, you were so
uncomfortable, I would have asked Basil and
you to the Court."
"You saw I was not happy when I was at
the Savoy."
"I thought you and Basil had had a kind
of lovers' quarrel, and that it would blow
over in an hour or two; no one likes to meddle
with an affair of that kind. Are you going
to Newport, or is Mrs. Denning in New
York?"
"That is another trouble, Ethel. When I
wrote mother I wanted to come to her, she
sent me word she was going to Lenox with a
friend. Then, like you, she said `she had no
liberty to invite me,' and so on. I never knew
mother act in such a way before. I nearly
broke my heart about it for a few days, then
I made up my mind I wouldn't care."
"Mrs. Denning, I am sure, thought she did
the wisest and kindest thing possible."
"I didn't want mother to be wise. I wanted
her to understand that I was fairly worn out
with my present life and needed a change.
I'm sure she did understand. Then why was
she so cruel?" and she shrugged her shoulders
impatiently and sat down. "I'm so
tired of life," she continued. "When did
you hear of Fred Mostyn?"
"I know nothing of his movements. Is
he in America?"
"Somewhere. I asked mother if he was
in Newport, and she never answered the ques-
tion. I suppose he will be in New York for
the winter season. I hope so."
This topic threatened to be more dangerous
than the other, and Ethel, after many and
futile attempts to bring conversation into
safe commonplace channels, pleaded other
engagements and went away. She was painfully
depressed by the interview. All the
elements of tragedy were gathered together
under the roof she had just left, and, as far
as she could see, there was no deliverer wise
and strong enough to prevent a calamity.
She did not repeat to Ruth the conversation
which had been so painful to her. She
described Dora's dress and appearance, and
commented on Fred Mostyn's description of
Tyrrel Rawdon, and on Mrs. Denning's refusal
of her daughter's proposed visit.
Ruth thought the latter circumstance
significant. "I dare say Mostyn was in
Newport at that time," she answered. "Mrs.
Denning has some very quick perceptions."
And Ruth's opinion was probably correct, for
during dinner the Judge remarked in a casual
manner that he had met Mr. Mostyn on the
avenue as he was coming home. "He was
well," he said, "and made all the usual
inquiries as to your health." And both Ruth
and Ethel understood that he wished them to
know of Mostyn's presence in the city, and
to be prepared for meeting him; but did not
care to discuss the subject further, at least
at that time. The information brought precisely
the same thought at the same moment
to both women, and as soon as they were
alone they uttered it.
"She knew Mostyn was in the city," said
Ethel in a low voice.
"Certainly."
"She was expecting him."
"I am sure of it."
"Her elaborate and beautiful dressing was
for him."
"Poor Basil!"
"She asked me to stay and lunch with her,
but very coolly, and when I refused, did not
press the matter as she used to do. Yes, she
was expecting him. I understand now her
nervous manner, her restlessness, her indifference
to my short visit. I wish I could do
anything."
"You cannot, and you must not try."
"Some one must try."
"There is her husband. Have you heard
from Tyrrel yet,"
"I have had a couple of telegrams. He
will write from Chicago."
"Is he going at once to the Hot Springs?"
"As rapidly as possible. Colonel Rawdon
is now there, and very ill. Tyrrel will put
his father first of all. The trouble at the
mine can be investigated afterwards."
"You will miss him very much. You have
been so happy together."
"Of course I shall miss him. But it will
be a good thing for us to be apart awhile.
Love must have some time in which to grow.
I am a little tired of being very happy, and I
think Tyrrel also will find absence a relief.
In `Lalla Rookh' there is a line about love
`falling asleep in a sameness of splendor.'
It might. How melancholy is a long spell
of hot, sunshiny weather, and how gratefully
we welcome the first shower of rain."
"Love has made you a philosopher, Ethel."
"Well, it is rather an advantage than
otherwise. I am going to take a walk, Ruth,
into the very heart of Broadway. I have had
enough of the peace of the country. I want
the crack, and crash, and rattle, and grind
of wheels, the confused cries, the snatches of
talk and laughter, the tread of crowds, the
sound of bells, and clocks, and chimes. I
long for all the chaotic, unintelligible noise
of the streets. How suggestive it is! Yet it
never explains itself. It only gives one a full
sense of life. Love may need just the same
stimulus. I wish grandmother would come
home. I should not require Broadway as a
stimulus. I am afraid she will be very angry
with me, and there will be a battle royal in
Gramercy Park."
It was nearly a week before Ethel had this
crisis to meet. She went down to it with a
radiant face and charming manner, and her
reception was very cordial. Madam would
not throw down the glove until the proper
moment; besides, there were many very interesting
subjects to talk over, and she wanted
"to find things out" that would never be told
unless tempers were propitious. Added to
these reasons was the solid one that she really
adored her granddaughter, and was immensely
cheered by the very sight of the rosy, smiling
countenance lifted to her sitting-room window
in passing. She, indeed, pretended to be
there in order to get a good light for her new
shell pattern, but she was watching for Ethel,
and Ethel understood the shell-pattern fiction
very well. She had heard something similar
often.
"My darling grandmother," she cried, "I
thought you would never come home."
"It wasn't my fault, dear. Miss Hillis
and an imbecile young doctor made me believe
I had a cold. I had no cold. I had
nothing at all but what I ought to have. I've
been made to take all sorts of things, and do
all sorts of things that I hate to take and hate
to do. For ten days I've been kicking my old
heels against bedclothes. Yesterday I took
things in my own hands."
"Never mind, Granny dear, it was all a
good discipline."
"Discipline! You impertinent young
lady! Discipline for your grandmother!
Discipline, indeed! That one word may cost
you a thousand dollars, miss."
"I don't care if it does, only you must give
the thousand dollars to poor Miss Hillis."
"Poor Miss Hillis has had a most comfortable
time with me all summer."
"I know she has, consequently she will
feel her comfortless room and poverty all the
more after it. Give her the thousand, Granny.
I'm willing."
"What kind of company have you been
keeping, Ethel Rawdon? Who has taught
you to squander dollars by the thousand?
Discipline! I think you are giving me a little
now--a thousand dollars a lesson, it seems--
no wonder, after the carryings-on at Rawdon
Court."
"Dear grandmother, we had the loveliest
time you can imagine. And there is not, in
all the world, such a noble old gentleman as
Squire Percival Rawdon."
"I know all about Percival Rawdon--a
proud, careless, extravagant, loose-at-ends
man, dancing and singing and loving as it
suited time and season, taking no thought for
the future, and spending with both hands;
hard on women, too, as could be."
"Grandmother, I never saw a more courteous
gentleman. He worships women. He
was never tired of talking about you."
"What had he to say about me?"
"That you were the loveliest girl in the
county, and that he never could forget the
first time he saw you. He said you were like
the vision of an angel."
"Nonsense! I was just a pretty girl in a
book muslin frock and a white sash, with a
rose at my breast. I believe they use book
muslin for linings now, but it did make the
sheerest, lightest frocks any girl could want.
Yes, I remember that time. I was going to
a little party and crossing a meadow to shorten
the walk, and Squire Percival had been out
with his gun, and he laid it down and ran to
help me over the stile. A handsome young
fellow he was then as ever stepped in shoe
leather."
"And he must have loved you dearly. He
would sit hour after hour telling Ruth and
me how bright you were, and how all the
young beaux around Monk-Rawdon adored
you."
"Nonsense! Nonsense! I had beaux to
be sure. What pretty girl hasn't?"
"And he said his brother Edward won
you because he was most worthy of your
love."
"Well, now, I chose Edward Rawdon because
he was willing to come to America. I
longed to get away from Monk-Rawdon. I
was faint and weary with the whole stupid
place. And the idea of living a free and
equal life, and not caring what lords and
squires and their proud ladies said or did,
pleased me wonderfully. We read about
Niagara and the great prairies and the new
bright cities, and Edward and I resolved to
make our home there. Your grandfather
wasn't a man to like being `the Squire's
brother.' He could stand alone."
"Are you glad you came to America?"
"Never sorry a minute for it. Ten years
in New York is worth fifty years in Monk-
Rawdon, or Rawdon Court either."
"Squire Percival was very fond of me.
He thought I resembled you, grandmother,
but he never admitted I was as handsome as
you were."
"Well, Ethel dear, you are handsome
enough for the kind of men you'll pick up
in this generation--most of them bald at
thirty, wearing spectacles at twenty or earlier,
and in spite of the fuss they make about
athletics breaking all to nervous bits about
fifty."
"Grandmother, that is pure slander. I
know some very fine young men, handsome
and athletic both."
"Beauty is a matter of taste, and as to
their athletics, they can run a mile with a
blacksmith, but when the thermometer rises
to eighty-five degrees it knocks them all to
pieces. They sit fanning themselves like
schoolgirls, and call for juleps and ice-water.
I've got eyes yet, my dear. Squire Percival
was a different kind of man; he could follow
the hounds all day and dance all night. The
hunt had not a rider like him; he balked at
neither hedge, gate, nor water; a right gallant,
courageous, honorable, affectionate gentleman
as ever Yorkshire bred, and she's
bred lots of superfine ones. What ever made
him get into such a mess with his estate?
Your grandfather thought him as straight as
a string in money matters."
"You said just now he was careless and
extravagant."
"Well, I did him wrong, and I'm sorry for
it. How did he manage to need eighty thousand
pounds?"
"It is rather a pitiful story, grandmother,
but he never once blamed those who were in
the wrong. His son for many years had been
the real manager of the estate. He was a
speculator; his grandsons were wild and
extravagant. They began to borrow money ten
years ago and had to go on."
"Whom did they borrow from?"
"Fred Mostyn's father."
"The devil! Excuse me, Ethel--but the
name suits and may stand."
"The dear old Squire would have taken the
fault on himself if he could have done so.
They that wronged him were his own, and
they were dead. He never spoke of them but
with affection."
"Poor Percival! Your father told me he
was now out of Mostyn's power; he said you
had saved the estate, but he gave me no
particulars. How did you save it?"
"Bought it!"
"Nonsense!"
"House and lands and outlying farms and
timber--everything."
Then a rosy color overspread Madam's
face, her eyes sparkled, she rose to her feet,
made Ethel a sweeping courtesy, and said:
"My respect and congratulations to Ethel,
Lady of Rawdon Manor."
"Dear grandmother, what else could I
do?"
"You did right."
"The Squire is Lord of the Manor as long
as he lives. My father says I have done well
to buy it. In the future, if I do not wish to
keep it, Nicholas Rawdon will relieve me at
a great financial advantage."
"Why didn't you let Nicholas Rawdon buy
it now?"
"He would have wanted prompt possession.
The Squire would have had to leave his
home. It would have broken his heart."
"I dare say. He has a soft, loving heart.
That isn't always a blessing. It can give one
a deal of suffering. And I hear you have all
been making idols of these Tyrrel-Rawdons.
Fred tells me they are as vulgar a lot as can
be."
"Fred lies! Excuse me, grandmother--but
the word suits and may stand. Mr. Nicholas
is pompous, and walks as slowly as if he had
to carry the weight of his great fortune; but
his manners are all right, and his wife and
son are delightful. She is handsome, well
dressed, and so good-hearted that her pretty
county idioms are really charming. John
Thomas is a man by himself--not handsome,
but running over with good temper, and
exceedingly clever and wide-awake. Many
times I was forced to tell myself, John
Thomas would make an ideal Squire of Rawdon."
"Why don't you marry him."
"He never asked me."
"What was the matter with the men?"
"He was already engaged to a very lovely
young lady."
"I am glad she is a lady."
"She is also very clever. She has been to
college and taken high honors, a thing I have
not done."
"You might have done and overdone that
caper; you were too sensible to try it. Well,
I'm glad that part of the family is looking
up. They had the right stuff in them, and it
is a good thing for families to dwell together
in unity. We have King David's word for
that. My observation leads me to think it is
far better for families to dwell apart, in
unity. They seldom get along comfortably
together."
Then Ethel related many pleasant, piquant
scenes between the two families at Monk-
Rawdon, and especially that one in which the
room of the first Tyrrel had been opened and
his likeness restored to its place in the family
gallery. It touched the old lady to tears, and
she murmured, "Poor lad! Poor lad! I
wonder if he knows! I wonder if he knows!"
The crucial point of Ethel's revelations had
not yet been revealed, but Madam was now
in a gentle mood, and Ethel took the opportunity
to introduce her to Tyrrel Rawdon.
She was expecting and waiting for this topic,
but stubbornly refused to give Ethel any help
toward bringing it forward. At last, the girl
felt a little anger at her pretended indifference,
and said, "I suppose Fred Mostyn told
you about Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon, of California?"
"Tyrrel Rawdon, of California! Pray,
who may he be?"
"The son of Colonel Rawdon, of the United
States Army."
"Oh, to be sure! Well, what of him?"
"I am going to marry him."
"I shall see about that."
"We were coming here together to see you,
but before we left the steamer he got a telegram
urging him to go at once to his father,
who is very ill."
"I have not asked him to come and see
me. Perhaps he will wait till I do so."
"If you are not going to love Tyrrel, you
need not love me. I won't have you for a
grandmother any longer."
"I did without you sixty years. I shall
not live another twelve months, and I think
I can manage to do without you for a granddaughter
any longer."
"You cannot do without me. You would
break your heart, and I should break mine."
Whereupon Ethel began to cry with a passion
that quite gratified the old lady. She watched
her a few moments, and then said gently:
"There now, that will do. When he comes
to New York bring him to see me. And don't
name the man in the meantime. I won't talk
about him till I've seen him. It isn't fair
either way. Fred didn't like him."
"Fred likes no one but Dora Stanhope."
"Eh! What! Is that nonsense going on
yet?"
Then Ethel described her last two interviews
with Dora. She did this with scrupulous
fidelity, making no suggestions that
might prejudice the case. For she really
wanted her grandmother's decision in order
to frame her own conduct by it. Madam was
not, however, in a hurry to give it.
"What do you think?" she asked Ethel.
"I have known Dora for many years; she
has always told me everything."
"But nothing about Fred?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing to tell, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"Where does her excellent husband come
in?"
"She says he is very kind to her in his
way."
"And his way is to drag her over the world
to see the cathedrals thereof, and to vary that
pleasure with inspecting schools and reformatories
and listening to great preachers. Upon
my word, I feel sorry for the child! And I
know all about such excellent people as the
Stanhopes. I used to go to what they call
`a pleasant evening' with them. We sat
around a big room lit with wax candles, and
held improving conversation, or some one
sang one or two of Mrs. Hemans' songs, like
`Passing Away' or `He Never Smiled
Again.' Perhaps there was a comic recitation,
at which no one laughed, and finally we
had wine and hot water--they called it `port
negus'--and tongue sandwiches and caraway
cakes. My dear Ethel, I yawn now when I
think of those dreary evenings. What must
Dora have felt, right out of the maelstrom of
New York's operas and theaters and dancing
parties?"
"Still, Dora ought to try to feel some interest
in the church affairs. She says she
does not care a hairpin for them, and Basil
feels so hurt."
"I dare say he does, poor fellow! He
thinks St. Jude's Kindergarten and sewing
circles and missionary societies are the only
joys in the world. Right enough for Basil,
but how about Dora?"
"They are his profession; she ought to
feel an interest in them."
"Come now, look at the question sensibly.
Did Dora's father bring his `deals' and
stock-jobbery home, and expect Dora and her
mother to feel an interest in them? Do doctors
tell their wives about their patients, and
expect them to pay sympathizing visits?
Does your father expect Ruth and yourself
to listen to his cases and arguments, and visit
his poor clients or make underclothing for
them? Do men, in general, consider it a
wife's place to interfere in their profession
or business?"
"Clergymen are different."
"Not at all. Preaching and philanthropy
is their business. They get so much a year
for doing it. I don't believe St. Jude's pays
Mrs. Stanhope a red cent. There now, and if
she isn't paid, she's right not to work. Amen
to that!"
"Before she was married Dora said she
felt a great interest in church work."
"I dare say she did. Marriage makes a
deal of difference in a woman's likes and dislikes.
Church work was courting-time before
marriage; after marriage she had other
opportunities."
"I think you might speak to Fred Mostyn----"
"I might, but it wouldn't be worth while.
Be true to your friend as long as you can.
In Yorkshire we stand by our friends, right
or wrong, and we aren't too particular as to
their being right. My father enjoyed justifying
a man that everyone else was down on;
and I've stood by many a woman nobody had
a good word for. I was never sorry for doing
it, either. I'll be going into a strange country
soon, and I should not wonder if some of
them that have gone there first will be ready
to stand by me. We don't know what friends
we'll be glad of there."
The dinner bell broke up this conversation,
and Ethel during it told Madam about the
cook and cooking at the Court and at
Nicholas Rawdon's, where John Thomas had
installed a French chef. Other domestic
arrangements were discussed, and when the
Judge called for his daughter at four o'clock,
Madam vowed "she had spent one of the
happiest days of her life."
"Ruth tells me," said the Judge, "that
Dora Stanhope called for Ethel soon after
she left home this morning. Ruth seems
troubled at the continuance of this friendship.
Have you spoken to your grandmother,
Ethel, about Dora?"
"She has told me all there is to tell, I dare
say," answered Madam.
"Well, mother, what do you think?"
"I see no harm in it yet awhile. It is not
fair, Edward, to condemn upon likelihoods.
We are no saints, sinful men and women, all
of us, and as much inclined to forbidden fruit
as any good Christians can be. Ethel can do
as she feels about it; she's got a mind of her
own, and I hope to goodness she'll not let
Ruth Bayard bit and bridle it."
Going home the Judge evidently pondered
this question, for he said after a lengthy
silence, "Grandmother's ethics do not always
fit the social ethics of this day, Ethel. She
criticises people with her heart, not her intellect.
You must be prudent. There is a remarkable
thing called Respectability to be
reckoned with remember that."
And Ethel answered, "No one need worry
about Dora. Some women may show the
edges of their character soiled and ragged,
but Dora will be sure to have hers reputably
finished with a hem of the widest propriety."
And after a short silence the Judge added,
almost in soliloquy, "And, moreover, Ethel,
"`There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.'"
PART FOURTH
THE REAPING OF THE SOWING
CHAPTER X
WHEN Ethel and Tyrrel parted at the
steamer they did not expect a long separation,
but Colonel Rawdon never recovered his
health, and for many excellent reasons Tyrrel
could not leave the dying man. Nor did
Ethel wish him to do so. Under these circumstances
began the second beautiful phase
of Ethel's wooing, a sweet, daily correspondence,
the best of all preparations for matrimonial
oneness and understanding. Looking
for Tyrrel's letters, reading them, and
answering them passed many happy hours,
for to both it was an absolute necessity to assure
each other constantly,
"Since I wrote thee yester eve
I do love thee, Love, believe,
Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,
One dream deeper one night stronger,
One sun surer--this much more
Than I loved thee, dear, before."
And for the rest, she took up her old life with
a fresh enthusiasm.
Among these interests none were more
urgent in their claims than Dora Stanhope;
and fortified by her grandmother's opinion,
Ethel went at once to call on her. She found
Basil with his wife, and his efforts to make
Ethel see how much he expected from her
influence, and yet at the same time not even
hint a disapproval of Dora, were almost pathetic,
for he was so void of sophistry that
his innuendoes were flagrantly open to detection.
Dora felt a contempt for them, and
he had hardly left the room ere she said:
"Basil has gone to his vestry in high
spirits. When I told him you were coming
to see me to-day he smiled like an angel. He
believes you will keep me out of mischief, and
he feels a grand confidence in something
which he calls `your influence.'"
"What do you mean by mischief?"
"Oh, I suppose going about with Fred
Mostyn. I can't help that. I must have some
one to look after me. All the young men I
used to know pass me now with a lifted hat
or a word or two. The girls have forgotten
me. I don't suppose I shall be asked to a
single dance this winter."
"The ladies in St. Jude's church would
make a pet of you if----"
"The old cats and kittens! No, thank you,
I am not going to church except on Sunday
mornings--that is respectable and right; but
as to being the pet of St. Jude's ladies! No,
no! How they would mew over my delinquencies,
and what scratches I should get
from their velvet-shod claws! If I have to
be talked about, I prefer the ladies of the
world to discuss my frailties."
"But if I were you, I would give no one a
reason for saying a word against me. Why
should you?"
"Fred will supply them with reasons. I
can't keep the man away from me. I don't
believe I want to--he is very nice and useful."
"You are talking nonsense, things you
don't mean, Dora. You are not such a foolish
woman as to like to be seen with Fred
Mostyn, that little monocular snob, after the
aristocratic, handsome Basil Stanhope. The
comparison is a mockery. Basil is the finest
gentleman I ever saw. Socially, he is perfection,
and----"
"He is only a clergyman."
"Even as a clergyman he is of religiously
royal descent. There are generations of
clergymen behind him, and he is a prince in
the pulpit. Every man that knows him gives
him the highest respect, every woman thinks
you the most fortunate of wives. No one
cares for Fred Mostyn. Even in his native
place he is held in contempt. He had nine
hundred votes to young Rawdon's twelve
thousand."
"I don't mind that. I am going to the
matinee to-morrow with Fred. He wanted
to take me out in his auto this afternoon, but
when I said I would go if you would he drew
back. What is the reason? Did he make
you offer of his hand? Did you refuse it?"
"He never made me an offer. I count that
to myself as a great compliment. If he had
done such a thing, he would certainly have
been refused."
"I can tell that he really hates you. What
dirty trick did you serve him about Rawdon
Court?"
"So he called the release of Squire Rawdon
a `dirty trick'? It would have been a
very dirty trick to have let Fred Mostyn get
his way with Squire Rawdon."
"Of course, Ethel, when a man lends his
money as an obligation he expects to get it
back again."
"Mostyn got every farthing due him, and
he wanted one of the finest manors in Eng-
land in return for the obligation. He did not
get it, thank God and my father!"
"He will not forget your father's
interference."
"I hope he will remember it."
"Do you know who furnished the money
to pay Fred? He says he is sure your father
did not have it."
"Tell him to ask my father. He might
even ask your father. Whether my father
had the money or not was immaterial. Father
could borrow any sum he wanted, I
think."
"Whom did he borrow from?"
"I am sure that Fred told you to ask that
question. Is he writing to you, Dora?"
"Suppose he is?"
"I cannot suppose such a thing. It is too
impossible."
This was the beginning of a series of events
all more or less qualified to bring about
unspeakable misery in Basil's home. But there
is nothing in life like the marriage tie. The
tugs it will bear and not break, the wrongs it
will look over, the chronic misunderstandings
it will forgive, make it one of the mysteries
of humanity. It was not in a day or a week
that Basil Stanhope's dream of love and
home was shattered. Dora had frequent and
then less frequent times of return to her
better self; and every such time renewed her
husband's hope that she was merely passing
through a period of transition and assimilation,
and that in the end she would be all his
desire hoped for.
But Ethel saw what he did not see, that
Mostyn was gradually inspiring her with his
own opinions, perhaps even with his own passion.
In this emergency, however, she was
gratified to find that Dora's mother appeared
to have grasped the situation. For if Dora
went to the theater with Mostyn, Mrs. Denning
or Bryce was also there; and the reckless
auto driving, shopping, and lunching had
at least a show of respectable association.
Yet when the opera season opened, the constant
companionship of Mostyn and Dora became
entirely too remarkable, not only in the
public estimation, but in Basil's miserable
conception of his own wrong. The young
husband used every art and persuasion--and
failed. And his failure was too apparent to
be slighted. He became feverish and nervous,
and his friends read his misery in eyes heavy
with unshed tears, and in the wasting pallor
caused by his sleepless, sorrowful nights.
Dora also showed signs of the change so
rapidly working on her. She was sullen and
passionate by turns; she complained bitterly
to Ethel that her youth and beauty had been
wasted; that she was only nineteen, and her
life was over. She wanted to go to Paris, to
get away from New York anywhere and anyhow.
She began to dislike even the presence
of Basil. His stately beauty offended her,
his low, calm voice was the very keynote of
irritation.
One morning near Christmas he came to
her with a smiling, radiant face. "Dora,"
he said, "Dora, my love, I have something
so interesting to tell you. Mrs. Colby and
Mrs. Schaffler and some other ladies have a
beautiful idea. They wish to give all the
children of the church under eight years old
the grandest Christmas tree imaginable--
really rich presents and they thought you
might like to have it here."
"What do you say, Basil!"
"You were always so fond of children.
You----"
"I never could endure them."
"We all thought you might enjoy it. Indeed,
I was so sure that I promised for you.
It will be such a pleasure to me also, dear."
"I will have no such childish nonsense in
my house."
"I promised it, Dora."
"You had no right to do so. This is my
house. My father bought it and gave me it,
and it is my own. I----"
"It seems, then, that I intrude in your
house. Is it so? Speak, Dora."
"If you will ask questions you must take
the answer. You do intrude when you come
with such ridiculous proposals--in fact, you
intrude very often lately."
"Does Mr. Mostyn intrude?"
"Mr. Mostyn takes me out, gives me a little
sensible pleasure. You think I can be interested
in a Christmas tree. The idea!"
"Alas, alas, Dora, you are tired of me!
You do not love me! You do not love me!"
"I love nobody. I am sorry I got married.
It was all a mistake. I will go home
and then you can get a divorce."
At this last word the whole man changed.
He was suffused, transfigured with an anger
that was at once righteous and impetuous.
"How dare you use that word to me?" he
demanded. "To the priest of God no such
word exists. I do not know it. You are my
wife, willing or unwilling. You are my wife
forever, whether you dwell with me or not.
You cannot sever bonds the Almighty has
tied. You are mine, Dora Stanhope! Mine
for time and eternity! Mine forever and
ever!"
She looked at him in amazement, and saw
a man after an image she had never imagined.
She was terrified. She flung herself on the
sofa in a whirlwind of passion. She cried
aloud against his claim. She gave herself up
to a vehement rage that was strongly infused
with a childish dismay and panic.
"I will not be your wife forever!" she
shrieked. "I will never be your wife again
--never, not for one hour! Let me go! Take
your hands off me!" For Basil had knelt
down by the distraught woman, and clasping
her in his arms said, even on her lips, "You
ARE my dear wife! You are my very own
dear wife! Tell me what to do. Anything
that is right, reasonable I will do. We can
never part."
"I will go to my father. I will never come
back to you." And with these words she rose,
threw off his embrace, and with a sobbing
cry ran, like a terrified child, out of the room.
He sat down exhausted by his emotion, and
sick with the thought she had evoked in that
one evil word. The publicity, the disgrace,
the wrong to Holy Church--ah, that was the
cruelest wound! His own wrong was hard
enough, but that he, who would gladly die
for the Church, should put her to open
shame! How could he bear it? Though it
killed him, he must prevent that wrong; yes,
if the right eye offended it must be plucked
out. He must throw off his cassock, and turn
away from the sacred aisles; he must--he
could not say the word; he would wait a little.
Dora would not leave him; it was impossible.
He waited in a trance of aching suspense.
Nothing for an hour or more broke it--no
footfall, no sound of command or complaint.
He was finally in hopes that Dora slept.
Then he was called to lunch, and he made a
pretense of eating it alone. Dora sent no excuse
for her absence, and he could not trust
himself to make inquiry about her. In the
middle of the afternoon he heard a carriage
drive to the door, and Dora, with her jewel-
case in her hand, entered it and was driven
away. The sight astounded him. He ran to
her room, and found her maid packing her
clothing. The woman answered his questions
sullenly. She said "Mrs. Stanhope had gone
to Mrs. Denning's, and had left orders for
her trunks to be sent there." Beyond this
she was silent and ignorant. No sympathy
for either husband or wife was in her heart.
Their quarrel was interfering with her own
plans; she hated both of them in consequence.
In the meantime Dora had reached her
home. Her mother was dismayed and hesitating,
and her attitude raised again in Dora's
heart the passion which had provoked the
step she had taken. She wept like a lost
child. She exclaimed against the horror of
being Basil's wife forever and ever. She
reproached her mother for suffering her to
marry while she was only a child. She said
she had been cruelly used in order to get the
family into social recognition. She was in a
frenzy of grief at her supposed sacrifice when
her father came home. Her case was then
won. With her arms round his neck, sobbing
against his heart, her tears and entreaties on
his lips, Ben Denning had no feeling and no
care for anyone but his daughter. He took
her view of things at once. "She HAD been
badly used. It WAS a shame to tie a girl like
Dora to sermons and such like. It was like
shutting her up in a convent." Dora's tears
and complaints fired him beyond reason. He
promised her freedom whatever it cost him.
And while he sat in his private room
considering the case, all the racial passions of
his rough ancestry burning within him, Basil
Stanhope called to see him. He permitted
him to come into his presence, but he rose as
he entered, and walked hastily a few steps to
meet him.
"What do you want here, sir?" he asked.
"My wife."
"My daughter. You shall not see her. I
have taken her back to my own care."
"She is my wife. No one can take her
from me."
"I will teach you a different lesson."
"The law of God."
"The law of the land goes here. You'll
find it more than you can defy."
"Sir, I entreat you to let me speak to
Dora."
"I will not."
"I will stay here until I see her."
"I will give you five minutes. I do not
wish to offer your profession an insult; if you
have any respect for it you will obey me."
Answer me one question--what have I
done wrong?"
"A man can be so intolerably right, that
he becomes unbearably wrong. You have no
business with a wife and a home. You are a
d---- sight too good for a good little girl that
wants a bit of innocent amusement. Sermons
and Christmas trees! Great Scott,
what sensible woman would not be sick of it
all? Sir, I don't want another minute of
your company. Little wonder that my Dora
is ill with it. Oblige me by leaving my house
as quietly as possible." And he walked to
the door, flung it open, and stood glaring at
the distracted husband. "Go," he said. "Go
at once. My lawyer will see you in the future.
I have nothing further to say to you."
Basil went, but not to his desolate home.
He had a private key to the vestry in his
church, and in its darkness and solitude he
faced the first shock of his ruined life, for he
knew well all was over. All had been. He sank
to the floor at the foot of the large cross which
hung on its bare white walls. Grief's illimitable
wave went over him, and like a drowning
man he uttered an inarticulate cry of agony
--the cry of a soul that had wronged its destiny.
Love had betrayed him to ruin. All
he had done must be abandoned. All he
had won must be given up. Sin and shame
indeed it would be if in his person a sacrament
of the Church should be dragged through
a divorce court. All other considerations
paled before this disgrace. He must resign
his curacy, strip himself of the honorable
livery of heaven, obliterate his person and
his name. It was a kind of death.
After awhile he rose, drank some water,
lifted the shade and let the moonlight in.
Then about that little room he walked with
God through the long night, telling Him his
sorrow and perplexity. And there is a depth
in our own nature where the divine and human
are one. That night Basil Stanhope
found it, and henceforward knew that the
bitterness of death was behind him, not before.
"I made my nest too dear on earth,"
he sighed, "and it has been swept bare--that
is, that I may build in heaven.
Now, the revelation of sorrow is the clearest
of all revelations. Stanhope understood that
hour what he must do. No doubts weakened
his course. He went back to the house Dora
called "hers," took away what he valued,
and while the servants were eating their
breakfast and talking over his marital
troubles, he passed across its threshold for
the last time. He told no one where he was
going; he dropped as silently and dumbly out
of the life that had known him as a stone
dropped into mid-ocean.
Ethel considered herself fortunate in being
from home at the time this disastrous culmination
of Basil Stanhope's married life
was reached. On that same morning the
Judge, accompanied by Ruth and herself, had
gone to Lenox to spend the holidays with
some old friends, and she was quite ignorant
of the matter when she returned after the
New Year. Bryce was her first informant.
He called specially to give her the news. He
said his sister had been too ill and too busy
to write. He had no word of sympathy for
the unhappy pair. He spoke only of the anxiety
it had caused him. "He was now engaged,"
he said, "to Miss Caldwell, and she
was such an extremely proper, innocent lady,
and a member of St. Jude's, it had really
been a trying time for her." Bryce also reminded
Ethel that he had been against Basil
Stanhope from the first. "He had always
known how that marriage would end," and
so on.
Ethel declined to give any opinion. "She
must hear both sides," she said. "Dora had
been so reasonable lately, she had appeared
happy."
"Oh, Dora is a little fox," he replied; "she
doubles on herself always."
Ruth was properly regretful. She wondered
"if any married woman was really
happy." She did not apparently concern
herself about Basil. The Judge rather leaned
to Basil's consideration. He understood that
Dora's overt act had shattered his professional
career as well as his personal happiness.
He could feel for the man there. "My
dears," he said, with his dilettante air, "the
goddess Calamity is delicate, and her feet are
tender. She treads not upon the ground, but
makes her path upon the hearts of men." In
this non-committal way he gave his comment,
for he usually found a bit of classical wisdom
to fit modern emergencies, and the habit
had imparted an antique bon-ton to his
conversation. Ethel could only wonder at the
lack of real sympathy.
In the morning she went to see her grandmother.
The old lady had "heard" all she
wanted to hear about Dora and Basil Stanhope.
If men would marry a fool because
she was young and pretty, they must take the
consequences. "And why should Stanhope
have married at all?" she asked indignantly.
"No man can serve God and a woman at the
same time. He had to be a bad priest and a
good husband, or a bad husband and a good
priest. Basil Stanhope was honored, was
doing good, and he must needs be happy also.
He wanted too much, and lost everything.
Serve him right."
"All can now find some fault in poor Basil
Stanhope," said Ethel. "Bryce was bitter
against him because Miss Caldwell shivers at
the word `divorce.'"
"What has Bryce to do with Jane Caldwell?"
"He is going to marry her, he says."
"Like enough; she's a merry miss of two-
score, and rich. Bryce's marriage with anyone
will be a well-considered affair--a marriage
with all the advantages of a good
bargain. I'm tired of the whole subject. If
women will marry they should be as patient
as Griselda, in case there ever was such a
woman; if not, there's an end of the matter."
"There are no Griseldas in this century,
grandmother."
"Then there ought to be no marriages.
Basil Stanhope was a grand man in public.
What kind of a man was he in his home?
Measure a man by his home conduct, and
you'll not go wrong. It's the right place to
draw your picture of him, I can tell you that."
"He has no home now, poor fellow."
"Whose fault was it? God only knows.
Where is his wife?"
"She has gone to Paris."
"She has gone to the right place if she
wants to play the fool. But there, now, God
forbid I should judge her in the dark.
Women should stand by women--considering."
"Considering?"
"What they may have to put up with. It
is easy to see faults in others. I have sometimes
met with people who should see faults
in themselves. They are rather uncommon,
though."
"I am sure Basil Stanhope will be miserable
all his life. He will break his heart, I
do believe."
"Not so. A good heart is hard to break,
it grows strong in trouble. Basil Stanhope's
body will fail long before his heart does; and
even so an end must come to life, and after
that peace or what God wills."
This scant sympathy Ethel found to be the
usual tone among her acquaintances. St.
Jude's got a new rector and a new idol, and
the Stanhope affair was relegated to the
limbo of things "it was proper to forget."
So the weeks of the long winter went by,
and Ethel in the joy and hope of her own
love-life naturally put out of her mind the
sorrow of lives she could no longer help or
influence. Indeed, as to Dora, there were
frequent reports of her marvelous social success
in Paris; and Ethel did not doubt Stanhope
had found some everlasting gospel of
holy work to comfort his desolation. And
then also
"Each day brings its petty dust,
Our soon-choked souls to fill;
And we forget because we must,
And not because we will."
One evening when May with heavy clouds
and slant rains was making the city as miserable
as possible, Ethel had a caller. His card
bore a name quite unknown, and his appearance
gave no clew to his identity.
"Mr. Edmonds?" she said interrogatively.
"Are you Miss Ethel Rawdon?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Mr. Basil Stanhope told me to put this
parcel in your hands."
"Oh, Mr. Stanhope! I am glad to hear
from him. Where is he now?"
"We buried him yesterday. He died last
Sunday as the bells were ringing for church
--pneumonia, miss. While reading the ser-
vice over a poor young man he had nursed
many weeks he took cold. The poor will miss
him sorely."
"DEAD!" She looked aghast at the
speaker, and again ejaculated the pitiful,
astounding word.
"Good evening, miss. I promised him to
return at once to the work he left me to do."
And he quietly departed, leaving Ethel standing
with the parcel in her hands. She ran
upstairs and locked it away. Just then she
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